mushed over rolling timberland and on the fifth day came to a low-lying basin of scrub pine. A frozen body of water ran through it, winding like a snake. Above the treetops, he saw smoke curling in the sky.
Constable Turner tied the dogs to a tree, and removing his rifle from the pack, went forward, along the icy waterway, blending in with the scenery, now a rock, now a tree. The snow was new and made no sound beneath his boots. He followed the snaking lake to its tail. Beyond it, the woods cleared, and in the clearing was a small cabin.
Circling the cabin, he came up behind it, next to a large storage shed. He crawled through the snow towards the shed, coming up quietly against its back wall. The door of the shed was open.
He stepped through the doorway. His leg brushed a taut rope, which suddenly gave way. A blur passed over him. He tried to leap away, but was struck on the head and fell to the ground, as a large wire cage slammed down around him, forcing him to his knees. He tried to lift the cage. It was weighted from above, with heavy sacks.
'Snaffled,' said Constable Turner, struggling to cock his rifle.
He aimed the rifle at the doorway of the shed and held steady as he could, bent over as he was with his head towards the ground. Performing the duties required of me as a member of the Northwest Mounted Police . He heard the cabin door open and footsteps flopping in the snow towards the shed. Without fear, favour, or affection of or towards any person .
The footsteps stopped. The wall of the shed was filled with knotholes, through which the sun streamed. He ran his eyes over the wall.
The footsteps flopped away. Constable Turner lowered his rifle. 'I'll have to break this birdcage to bits,' he said, and kicked and shouldered the cage, ramming it with all his might, but the wire did not yield.
The afternoon passed slowly and Constable Turner spent it curled in a ball. Darkness fell and he remained in a huddle. The floor of the shed was frozen earth. The walls were hung with animal skins. The wire of the cage was so finely woven he was unable to pass a finger through it. He took pad and pencil from his jacket.
29 Nov 1909
Found trapper. Snaffled in fox pen.
Formulating plan.
The night wrapped him in. His limbs rattled and his teeth chattered uncontrollably. His nose ached as if it had been struck by a hammer.
Sleep came and he fought against it, for sleep was deep cold. Teeth and eyes of animals came out of the dark moonlit walls. Terror surrounded him for a moment and then it passed, and he spent the night dumbly dreaming.
As pale streaks of morning light came across the floor of the shed, Turner was in a crouch, watching the door and the hill, where the grey light was advancing.
He heard the cabin door open. Across the newly-frosted ground came the crunch of boots. 'Hello!' shouted Turner, with a voice like cracking ice. 'A team of dogs is tied up at the far end of the lake!'
The footsteps crunched away. Later came the barking of the dogs. Their rough voices grew louder until they were in the snow directly outside Turner's shed. Finally, he heard their satisfied chomping on food.
'Hello!' he called. 'I am Constable Turner of the Northwest Mounted Police!'
The dogs growled, tearing at their food. Turner banged against the cage with his fist. 'I am from the Post on Red Deer Hill, outside Saskatoon!'
An odd, gravelled voice came through the wall of the shed:
'Horn soup!'
Then the footsteps crunched through the snow, back to the cabin. Constable Turner sat, staring out the door, his neck bent, and listened to the morning. A rabbit crossed the doorway, looked in for a moment, and hopped away. The sun went along, over the trees, over the shed.
Night came again and the cold moved deeper into him, like icewater in his veins. The snow owl hooted. The trees gleamed in the moonlight. The wind came through the open door, howling around him. His dream was grey and lonely. He ran across the moonlit snow. Yonder
Constable Turner tied the dogs to a tree, and removing his rifle from the pack, went forward, along the icy waterway, blending in with the scenery, now a rock, now a tree. The snow was new and made no sound beneath his boots. He followed the snaking lake to its tail. Beyond it, the woods cleared, and in the clearing was a small cabin.
Circling the cabin, he came up behind it, next to a large storage shed. He crawled through the snow towards the shed, coming up quietly against its back wall. The door of the shed was open.
He stepped through the doorway. His leg brushed a taut rope, which suddenly gave way. A blur passed over him. He tried to leap away, but was struck on the head and fell to the ground, as a large wire cage slammed down around him, forcing him to his knees. He tried to lift the cage. It was weighted from above, with heavy sacks.
'Snaffled,' said Constable Turner, struggling to cock his rifle.
He aimed the rifle at the doorway of the shed and held steady as he could, bent over as he was with his head towards the ground. Performing the duties required of me as a member of the Northwest Mounted Police . He heard the cabin door open and footsteps flopping in the snow towards the shed. Without fear, favour, or affection of or towards any person .
The footsteps stopped. The wall of the shed was filled with knotholes, through which the sun streamed. He ran his eyes over the wall.
The footsteps flopped away. Constable Turner lowered his rifle. 'I'll have to break this birdcage to bits,' he said, and kicked and shouldered the cage, ramming it with all his might, but the wire did not yield.
The afternoon passed slowly and Constable Turner spent it curled in a ball. Darkness fell and he remained in a huddle. The floor of the shed was frozen earth. The walls were hung with animal skins. The wire of the cage was so finely woven he was unable to pass a finger through it. He took pad and pencil from his jacket.
29 Nov 1909
Found trapper. Snaffled in fox pen.
Formulating plan.
The night wrapped him in. His limbs rattled and his teeth chattered uncontrollably. His nose ached as if it had been struck by a hammer.
Sleep came and he fought against it, for sleep was deep cold. Teeth and eyes of animals came out of the dark moonlit walls. Terror surrounded him for a moment and then it passed, and he spent the night dumbly dreaming.
As pale streaks of morning light came across the floor of the shed, Turner was in a crouch, watching the door and the hill, where the grey light was advancing.
He heard the cabin door open. Across the newly-frosted ground came the crunch of boots. 'Hello!' shouted Turner, with a voice like cracking ice. 'A team of dogs is tied up at the far end of the lake!'
The footsteps crunched away. Later came the barking of the dogs. Their rough voices grew louder until they were in the snow directly outside Turner's shed. Finally, he heard their satisfied chomping on food.
'Hello!' he called. 'I am Constable Turner of the Northwest Mounted Police!'
The dogs growled, tearing at their food. Turner banged against the cage with his fist. 'I am from the Post on Red Deer Hill, outside Saskatoon!'
An odd, gravelled voice came through the wall of the shed:
'Horn soup!'
Then the footsteps crunched through the snow, back to the cabin. Constable Turner sat, staring out the door, his neck bent, and listened to the morning. A rabbit crossed the doorway, looked in for a moment, and hopped away. The sun went along, over the trees, over the shed.
Night came again and the cold moved deeper into him, like icewater in his veins. The snow owl hooted. The trees gleamed in the moonlight. The wind came through the open door, howling around him. His dream was grey and lonely. He ran across the moonlit snow. Yonder
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